Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  Jafar shook his head. "No, I never fit in. I could never become the civilized young gentleman my grandfather wanted me to become. One doesn't forget his heritage simply because he finds himself in a different country. Being half English does not make him an Englishman."

  No, Alysson thought silently, Jafar could never be an Englishman. Not when the blood of Berber warriors ran so fiercely in his veins. And yet he was not all Berber, either. Had she known to look, she would have seen the signs of his European upbringing in his mannerisms, in his care of her. He'd kept his past hidden from her, but his rare lapses into speaking English should have warned her, if nothing else.

  "And later? You gave up your English life to return here?"

  "There was a war being fought here. This is my country, my home. I had to return. I had just taken leave of my grandfather the day I came across you up in that tree, throwing acorns at me."

  She thought back, remembering. Now she knew why the bay stallion in his stables seemed familiar to her. She had seen it before. It was the same savage-looking beast he had ridden in England, the same one she had seen in her dreams. And Jafar—he was the stranger who had comforted her that long-ago day, the stranger who had made her grief more bearable.

  He was the man who had affected her life so profoundly seven years ago. Much of her happiness during her awkward progression from girlhood to womanhood she owed to him.

  It would take her a moment to grow accustomed to the idea.

  Her gaze searching, she scrutinized Jafar with new eyes. The lamp glowed, giving intriguing play to the lean hollows and planes of his face. It took no effort to see in those hard features the authority of one born to rule . . . or the determination of a man unflinching in love and hate. But now that she knew who he was, she understood things that had always puzzled her, things that his conflicting heredity and disparate upbringing might explain. Why, for instance, his conduct and manner of address sometimes seemed European. Why she'd thought he always seemed alone, even among his own people. He was a man caught between two cultures, Berber and English. Half of this world, half of a foreign one, perhaps a true part of neither. Within him warred the sensual soul of the East and the cool pragmatism of the British aristocrat. And no doubt he had inherited a measure of both pride and arrogance from each side. He might have disavowed his English heritage, but it was still a vital part of him.

  "Did you ever see your grandfather again?" she asked finally.

  "I visited him once more," Jafar said with a sigh. "In '43, the tide of the war had turned. Abdel Kader's army was facing defeat, and the French government was intent on crushing any final opposition. Not only were they determined to limit the authority of our sheiks and administrators, but they attempted to destroy our very culture. I led an envoy to England on behalf of Abdel Kader, where I petitioned Queen Victoria to enter the war against France on the side of the Arabs . . . to no avail."

  Silently Alysson studied him. Thinking back, she remembered the harsh, bitter words Jafar had once flung at her about the sufferings his country had endured at the hands of the French. She'd realized then how powerless he felt about his ability to save his people or prevent them from being ground under the heel of French oppression. Jafar was struggling with his own kind of grief over the French conquest of his country. She could sense his anguish, his silent rage over his helplessness, and it wrung her heart. She longed to comfort him, though she could find no consolation to offer.

  But she could thank him for the consolation he had once given her.

  "You gave me hope that day," she said quietly. "You told me to make myself indispensable to my uncles, to make them want me, and I did. I still have your handkerchief."

  The harsh emotion in Jafar's eyes suddenly abated, his gaze softening as he contemplated her. "I am curious to know how you implemented my advice."

  "I became what my uncles wanted most—a traveling companion, a helpmate, a daughter."

  "I'm glad that your term in England was not as bad as you feared."

  "I wouldn't go so far as to say that." Alysson regarded him with a wry smile. "I was an outcast from the first moment I arrived at boarding school with my Indian servant. Chand prostrated himself to pray to Allah and promptly was branded a heathen. I was considered an unholy terror."

  Jafar's lips curved upward. "I can well imagine how you might have shocked some sensibilities. You were rather a contentious young lady, if I recall."

  Alysson gave a graceful shrug. She still couldn't look back on that time with equanimity. She'd been a reckless, unruly, inelegant young girl back then, stubbornly determined to flout the disdainful social elite who had scorned her. "I didn't allow their rejection to bother me, not once my uncles came to notice me. I even became accustomed to being a byword."

  She said it lighdy, but Jafar heard the underlying hurt in that simple admission.

  "I wasn't totally without resources," Alysson continued. "A vast fortune can gain one entree into even the highest circles. I even had a presentation at court. Not that I was keen on the idea, but my Uncle Cedric thought it a great coup that I make my curtsies to the queen."

  "A fortune can be an advantage," he agreed quietly.

  Alysson fell silent, remembering. She had been raised to elegance and wealth, but money was not a cure for loneliness. Indeed, for her, money had never been the great blessing it was supposed to be. She'd quickly learned what a curse it could be to be so exceedingly rich . . . to be used by impoverished aristocrats and social climbers for their own ends, to pay the price in loneliness, never knowing who you could trust to be a true friend, never knowing who you could love. Yet it was because of that very wealth that society tolerated her. In spite of her wild ways, she could do little wrong.

  Shaking herself mentally, Alysson struggled to refocus her thoughts. How had they managed to change the subject? They had been discussing him, not her.

  "I wish I had known you were part English," she said finally. "It would have made my captivity easier to bear."

  Her wistful tone affected Jafar like a blow, making his soul ache.

  Guilt smote him as he thought of the countless wrongs against Alysson that could be laid at his door. He had taken her captive, terrified her, humiliated her, almost gotten her killed. He had made war on her race and come within a hairsbreadth of slaying the man she loved. He had nearly caused the death of her beloved uncle. He had taken her virtue and destroyed her good name in the eyes of her society, perhaps destroyed her life.

  At die time, when he had first embarked on his mission of vengeance, he'd had entirely justifiable reasons for every savage action he'd taken, every uncivilized thing he had done to her. But now, what he wanted most to do was take her in his arms and console her, to beg her forgiveness.

  He stared down at Alysson, wondering at the bewildering gentleness she inspired in him. He had never felt that so strongly, not for any woman but her. How easily she could endear herself to him . , . No, she had already done so. She was dear to him. But was she so dear that he could put her interests before his own? Was he willing to let her go? Without warning, the word love invaded his thoughts. Was it love he felt for her?

  The question prodded him like a dagger, as did his next reflection. If he truly loved her, he would value her happiness above his own. If he truly loved her, he would set her free.

  But his feelings for his defiant young captive were not something he wanted to scrutinize, just as her freedom was not a subject he wanted to face. He wasn't sorry when Alysson interrupted his musings with a pensive query.

  "Your being part English . . . does your tribe hold it against you?"

  "In the past they haven't, but some consider my motives suspect for failing to carry out my oath. One member of the council has charged that my heredity caused me to sympathize with the Europeans."

  "That," Alysson said emphatically, "is complete nonsense. I've never seen you act the least sympathetic toward Europeans."

  He smiled tiredly. "Well, the charge will
have to be proven before the council. I will not give up my rule easily."

  "Good."

  Her obvious partiality warmed him, though her next comment made that warmth fade.

  "You said our being here gave you greater bargaining power with the French, but I suppose your tribe would have been outraged at you if you had let us go?"

  Jafar hedged, "That influenced my decision to keep you here, yes. I would have had difficulty defending my position if I released you before securing the freedom of as many of our war prisoners as possible."

  Aware of his hypocrisy, but not wanting to explain his true reasons for keeping her captive, Jafar rose and went to the doorway. Alysson's next question, however, prevented him from leaving.

  "Jafar . . . why didn't you want me to know who you were? Why didn't you tell me?"

  Halting, he turned to glance over his shoulder, his expression enigmatic. "If you learned my identity, you would be able to lead your fiancé to me, to my tribe."

  "And now you think I won't tell him, that I won't betray you?"

  Would you betray me, Ehuresh? he thought silently. Aloud, he gave a different reply. "Now I think it doesn't matter. I have Bourmont's pledge not to come after you, if and when he is released. He gave you up . . . once he had my assurances that you would not be harmed.''

  Alysson looked down at her hands, but not before Jafar caught the flash of despair in her eyes at the knowledge that her colonel had abandoned her.

  "What else could he do?" Jafar said quietly, conscious of the irony in defending his archenemy. "His troops had just suffered a major defeat. He had wounded men who needed medical attention. And I had just spared his life when by all rights I should have killed him."

  She raised her head then, her luminous gray eyes troubled and questioning. "Why didn't you kill him?"

  Jafar hesitated. "Because of you," he replied softly. "What else could I do?"

  Alysson had a number of disturbing reflections to ponder during the course of the following week. Jafar's background. The decisions he'd made regarding both herself and his blood enemy. His possible impeachment. His relationship with her.

  He had given up his vengeance because of her. Not for Gervase, but for her. She was the reason he had betrayed his oath, and now his rule, his very future was at stake. It made her feel very humble.

  As for their relationship, his revelations about his identity had not changed the circumstances between them . . . and yet they had. Knowing he was half English, she felt closer to Jafar, more attune to his thoughts and feelings. Which was absurd, considering that he treated her no differently after their discussion in the library than before. He still spoke French whenever they met in public, and he still played the considerate host, making every effort to entertain and please her.

  Yet she was still his captive.

  She still had no place in his life, no future. They were nothing like equals. Jafar was a Berber prince, an English nobleman, while her bourgeois blood was common red—its only claim to blue being her aristocratic French grandmother. She was also tainted by the smell of the shop.

  And then there was the issue of their disparate backgrounds. Jafar might have spent a great part of his youth in England, but by his own admission, he hadn't fit in. She wouldn't fit in here either, not in this Berber culture, with its different religion and vastly different customs.

  No, they had no future together. If she thought about it at all, it was only to scold herself for being a fool. Not in her wildest dreams could she imagine that Jafar would want an Englishwoman for his wife. Not with his aversion to all things European. Not with his tribe already questioning his motives. He would be suspected of siding with the enemy were he even to consider marriage to her.

  Besides, Zohra had told her Jafar would wed one of his own kind. When Alysson subtly introduced the subject one afternoon in the kitchens, Tahar only confirmed it.

  "Yes, the lord must take a noblewoman to wife. It is his duty."

  "A Berber noblewoman?"

  "Or Arab."

  "Not English?"

  Tahar looked surprised at the question. "The lord would not wed a foreign woman."

  "But Jafar's mother was a foreigner, was she not? His father married her.''

  Tahar shrugged fatalistically. "That was before the war."

  Alysson heard the finality in that simple statement with an aching heart. Before the war.

  Of course the war had changed everything. It was the very reason Jafar had disavowed his English heritage. No, he wouldn't want a foreign wife. Foreigners were brutal murderers, the conquerors of his beloved homeland. And even if he could bring himself to overlook that overwhelming obstacle, Alysson reflected, she wouldn't be the woman he chose. Culturally he despised everything she represented, but personally, the marks against her were nearly as formidable. She was not at all like the women of Barbary. She could never be submissive and docile, toward Jafar or any other man. She had been too independent and strong- willed for far too long.

  No, Jafar might desire her for the moment, but he couldn't possibly come to love her. He would use her body, if she let him, and that would be the end of it.

  If she let him. She didn't know if she could bring herself to stay as his mistress, even if she were asked. But so far Jafar hadn't given her the slightest indication that he was considering such a longer-term relationship with her, scandalous or otherwise.

  She had begun her third week at Jafar's mountain fortress when Zohra again gave a dance performance for the company. Alysson endured the evening, but was grateful that she had worn her most attractive outfit. Tahar had sewn for her a new djellaba of rich yellow velvet, and the garment gave her a confidence she wasn't aware she was lacking.

  Early the following morning, however, even that confidence was shattered. Alysson was strolling in the courtyard while Jafar held audience in his reception hall. There was no sign of the young greyhound who had befriended her. When she came across a wizened old Berber woman sitting on the ground chanting and waving an amulet, Alysson withdrew a discreet distance to give the woman some privacy. Settling herself on one of the marble benches, she turned her face up to the warm sunshine.

  Mahmoud found her moments later and startled her with his sudden exclamation. "Come away, lallah! Please, you must come away at once!"

  Abruptly opening her eyes, Alysson stared at him in bewilderment. His face was pale beneath the vicious red scar and he was wringing his hands in what seemed to be fear. "The old woman," he babbled, "she is a kahina! A witch! She commands the djinns—the evil spirits—and will cast a spell on you! You must not stay here!"

  Alysson cast a dubious glance across the courtyard at the harmless-looking old woman. The Berbers were highly superstitious, she knew, but she herself did not believe in such nonsense.

  Her hesitation sent Mahmoud into a frenzy. In his distress, he totally forgot his place as a servant and grabbed Alysson's hand, giving it a fierce tug as he implored her again to leave.

  Just then Zohra stepped from the shadows of a fig tree, her eyes gleaming with malevolence as she fixed them on Mahmoud. "Get you gone!" she demanded in Berber, pointing at the boy.

  Alysson leaped to her feet to defend him, but to her surprise, before she could say a word, Mahmoud turned and fled as fast as his limp would allow.

  He had not abandoned her, however. Instead he had run to fetch his master. Zohra had only time to turn her virulent gaze on Alysson before Jafar came striding out of the house, his robes swirling fiercely around his ankles as he bore down on them. The harsh fury on his face was visible even at a distance.

  When he reached them, the kahina stopped chanting and Zohra took an involuntary step backward.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Jafar asked the Berber beauty, his low, controlled voice vibrating with rage.

  With her limited command of the Berber language, Alysson understood only one word in three of the subsequent discussion, but she comprehended enough to realize what had happened: Zohra had arrang
ed for the Berber sorceress to cast a spell on the "infidel Englishwoman."

  Mahmoud, who had returned to the scene, edged closer to Alysson. "I came in time," he whispered anxiously, "before the kahina could appeal to the evil spirits and cast rbat on you—the great curse. The lord will prevent her, praise Allah." Despite his faith, however, Mahmoud placed his thin crippled body between Alysson and the witch.

  At the protective gesture by the young boy, Alysson's heart swelled. She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, both in gratitude and because she wanted him to hush so she could try to follow the stormy conversation.

  She had never seen Jafar so angry, not even the time she'd threatened to kill herself. Zohra, understandably, looked frightened by his savage temper, yet there was no prostrating herself at the lord's feet. Indeed, more than once Zohra gave a proud toss of her head, her eyes flashing defiancé as she railed at her rival.